Page 117

Without another word, the captain turned, and I hurried in his wake, chest tightening as the crowd behind us cheered again—I was certain I didn’t want to know why. Bartholomew led us down the hall and pushed open an oak door to a small, sterile room. A cart of supplies bracketed one exam table; across from it sat a solitary chair and a small stainless-steel sink with soap and paper towels.

We’d only been inside a few minutes, the silence growing stifling, when the prince slipped in behind us. Beyond the blood and bruises, he looked… exhausted.

Wary dark brown eyes lifted to mine, and without a word, Adrastos crossed the space and sank onto the lone table, his gaze distant. He slumped against the wall, his mammoth frame making the room seem far too small—somehow smaller still when his eyes slid closed. Heaving breaths lifted his glistening, bruised chest.

I looked to Bartholomew for instructions—for something, anything. He simply jerked his chin toward his cousin.

“Please,” Adrastos breathed, eyes still shut. Curt. Direct. Not a godsdamned request.

Swallowing back the vitriol climbing up my throat, I simply said, “No.”

Two sets of brown eyes lifted to my face.

“Witchling,” Bartholomew warned. I simply raised a brow in response.

“No,” I said, over-enunciating those two letters with every scrap of strength I had left. Adrastos just sat there glaring with the same bored expression his brother had worn in the arena. I crossed my arms for emphasis. Something savage sparked in his eyes as I held them, and I jerked my focus to his cousin. “Take me back.”

“Moros said you’re to heal him.”

“No,” I repeated.

“So, you’ll heal the king—the conqueror himself—but this is your line?” Bartholomew demanded, irritation creeping into his tone.

I lifted a solitary brow. Moros hadn’t wormed his way into my confidence—hadn’t convinced me he was one of the rare men worthy of my most precious sister. Moros hadn’t fucked the person who meant the world to me, made her feel safe for the first time in years, knowing full well he’d betray her—destroy her.

A wry smirk tugged at the corner of Adrastos’ bloodied mouth. Because he knew. Knew I’d exaggerated Moros’ injury for my benefit. Knew I’d manipulated the theatrics of it.

Still, he held his tongue.

“I will not pour my magic into a leak-ridden vessel.”

“What happened to a healer’s mercy?” the captain challenged. But I didn’t turn to Bartholomew.

Holding those haunted, bottomless eyes, I sneered, “Mercy would be wasted on the godless.”

Long, punishing heartbeats passed before Adrastos asked, “Are you well, witchling?”

I blinked. Scowled. Dragging the threads to the front of my mind, I studied the writhing ropes of fate around him, found the one most recently severed, and took aim.

“The man you just slaughtered in cold blood must’ve hit you harder than I thought if you expect me to dignify that with a response.”

His gaze faltered. Good. I’d hit my mark.

I studied the rest of that writhing mess of his, even as he barely breathed one word. A name.

“Thames.” When I simply held my glower, he clarified. “His name was Thames.”

“Knowing that certainly didn’t keep you from cutting him down.” My magic wove around the thrumming string, the one muting to the faintest orange. Well, that was intriguing.

There was some semblance of shame woven into the blood he’d just spilled. I could use that.

“Mated, this male?” I guessed, canting my head as his brow furrowed, eyes going hollow. “Did you just widow a woman? Leave her children fatherless? For sport? Like some half-wit brute?”

“Silence.” The word was quiet, lethal, the kind of command most people would heed. My power hummed in response. I traced that quickly fading thread to another—this one blue. “When did you make a habit of breaking innocent women? Can’t compete on a level field, so you rip their mates out of their hands to eliminate the competition?”

Light flickered in his glare—a deep, buried fury, despite that well-trained mask of indifference. I scoffed, shaking my head as I mimicked that bored drawl he’d long ago mastered.

“Men like you are all the same, princeling,” I mocked. “Weak. Cowardly. Like putty in the hands of a man strong enough to wield commands. No wonder you kneel to such a tyrant.”